


Bleeding Out

by helloliriels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A heart is a heavy burden, Angst, FINISHED!!!!, Feelings, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hospital Warning, Is it getting hot in here?, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, havent decided, jumping right in the thick of it, no one said feelings are easy, not sure if events of S3 or S4 have happened, post-TRF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28929690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloliriels/pseuds/helloliriels
Summary: Sherlock never meant to put John in this position; having to watch his best friend bleed out on the pavement. Again.One more for the Reichenbach...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	1. Exsanguination

Sherlock was bleeding out.

John Watson could see the red spreading across his shirt and soaking into his coat.

John had seen him slip and fall on the ominous red liquid that had begun to drip suddenly to the floor beneath his feet. The only signal something was wrong in the first place.

_No prior warning._

And John had managed to arrest most of his momentum before he hit the ground. But he had still knocked his head pretty hard in the fall. He was now struggling to stay alert. His mind racing as if through a fog.

They were both on the ground now.

Being settled down softly.

John hovering over him.

Sherlock felt John’s right hand cup his cheek and jawline. The thumb resting so carefully against the corner of his lips, like the touch grounded him.

A calmness betrayed by the activity of the left hand, however, as it was frantically searching his person. Up his left side and down his middle, now to his ride side. John feverishly hunted. All along his arms, his legs, his neck, his head, his torso and his back. Patting and scanning as he went.

Looking _anywhere_. Everywhere.

For the entrance to a wound that should be (and was) currently gushing from Sherlock’s side.

Rivers of blood were issuing forth at a pace so rapid, there had to be a major artery involved somewhere. But where?

John obviously wasn’t finding it, and punched the floor in frustration.

He slammed it hard.

An unnatural rumble building from inside his throat somewhere. _Primal._

_While blood continued to flow..._

Sherlock could only watch in horror,

as John came undone before his eyes.

John’s hands - strong hands,

that had held guns and scalpels steady –

were both now shaking _visibly_.

His breath becoming ragged and rapid, as tears were spilling out from behind his blinking eyes. He brushed them away. He would not give up the search.

It must be invisible.

Like the invisible guardsman’s wound.

He needed to think. _Solve the problem, save the life._

Because Sherlock always counted on him to be the hero. At this moment the burden was overwhelming.

He poked and prodded Sherlock in a meticulous fashion, forcing himself to slow. Counting, and checking each major artery point, one-by-one.

His vision blurred.

Tears streaming down along his cheeks, and falling onto Sherlock's jacket. Perfect droplets that pooled here - and there mixed with the blood on the ground.

A red stain was spreading all along the floor.

John kept stealing glances at Sherlock's face, then back to his body searching, and then back to his face. Hardly making eye contact. Hardly hovering for more than a second. As if he would not be able to hold it together, if he stopped to REALLY look at any single place for too long.

Sherlock was frozen in shock.

The _Doctor_ mode

and the _Soldier_ mode, he could see –

were fighting an impossible battle 

against his 'I'm Losing My Best Friend,

and I Can Do Nothing About It' mode.

Again.

Sherlock tried to stutter out a few words, and John shushed him - not unkindly. Stopping his mouth forcibly though, with the palm of his hand and then pulling him in to himself roughly. Gripping Sherlock into an embrace so tight, like he might never let go...

Sherlock felt the bones of his shoulders and arms creak with the movement. He was pressed up against the hard bent of John's arms. He was certain he could not be held closer without suffocating. Was John trying to hold him together by sheer will?

He might break, and shatter like glass. And he was half afraid, that if pushed any further, John would also.

Sherlock was still oddly lucid, and tried to get John's attention - if just for a moment…

His actions seemed more like flailing to John's experienced eyes. And he somehow held him tighter. Shush-shushing. Like this was all he had now.

Sherlock relaxed into John's embrace, and let John hold him there. Knowing there was nothing he could say or do to stop what came next.

John began rocking Sherlock back and forth in his arms. Weeping. 

Loudly. Openly.

It echoed against the walls. Down the hall. And out into the atrium where it bounced off the full bank of windows in the nurses station, and reverberated;

A sickening, mocking chorus, back down to where they were prone. 

_It was hateful._

_And he had done this to John._

Sherlock felt like he understood what an out of body experience must feel like now. As he lay here, helpless. So close and yet so far from John Watson. 

_One more for the Reichenbach_. He thought. And closed his eyes in defeat. 

As one man physically, and one man emotionally,

bled out on the floor of that lonesome, abandoned hospital wing.

 _What irony_. 

Sherlock stilled.

***


	2. Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John holds Sherlock's dying body, he gets a surprise. A revelation. What was happening?

Sherlock stilled.

Calmed his breathing.

Felt one of John's hands bunch up with a handful of his shirt in his fist, wrapping himself inside the layer of Sherlock's jacket. Like he needed to be closer. As his breath hitched and his crying subsided into hiccups. The heat from John's hand was a burning, radiating warmth, pressed against his skin. It might leave a permanent mark there, he thought.

He almost wished it would.

His shirt was coming loose from his waistband, what with John's rocking and gripping, and pulling. What hadn't already been dislodged in the search that is. The other hand, John was still using to keep him close. A titan grip across his narrow shoulders.

Sherlock's face was pressed against John's neck now. And he knew what he had to do, to catch John's attention.

Sherlock nestled his face into the crook of John's neck. Feeling his artery pulse.

And kissed him there.

A simple kiss.

Feeling the wetness of his own tears left behind on John's skin, as was he pulling away. He hadn't even registered that he, himself, had been crying...

He looked up. And saw John stiffen at the act. Sit bolt upright.

John's hands paused where they were rigidly clawed against Sherlock's back. His spine. It hurt a little. But Sherlock waited, bearing the discomfort.

He made sure to breathe.

Forcing a calm, healthy, _strong_ full breath against John's neck where he was still being held.

He was sure John could feel the spot he had kissed him _now_. Maybe more so than when he had first placed the kiss. The breath from his mouth radiating warmth and humidity up along John's cheek and ear and into his hairline. He saw the man shiver reflexively.

It had the immediate effect Sherlock had wanted.

It calmed John more that anything else Sherlock could have said, or done, in that very moment.

The Doctor within had just been alerted, and taken back over. His patient was alive.

His patient was _alive!?!_

John slowly turned his head, but did not yet _look_ at Sherlock. He was staring at the wall as if dazed. _He must be_.

_Of course._

_He would be._

For more than one reason now...

Sherlock became acutely _aware_ \- that he had Just. _Kissed_. John. Watson.

On the Neck.

A very personal gesture at best. And not one easily shrugged off as "bro" worthy at worst.

It had seemed a good idea at the time. Necessary even. And it had done the job he'd intended.... But he had a feeling that it was a bit _not good._

At least, to Mr. "not gay" Watson.

Bothering him more than that, was the possibility that John might think... that Sherlock had just tricked him, or tried to use him in some way.

_Oh this was bad._

Because the reality is... that Sherlock. Was Not. Dying.

Not here. Not now. 

He was not even a little wounded (besides the growing bump on his head and some delayed response times). 

The blood that had just issued from underneath his jacket - that had caused this whole ridiculous debacle - had come from a bag he had been holding on his person for an experiment. 

Something rather inconsequential. He had already forgotten about it.

What with the mayhem and mishap that had followed their adventures this evening, culminating in this wildly unexpected event.

He had collected the bag from Molly at Bart's just before running out to catch the criminals they had been after. John meeting him at the abandoned site. And they had sent the captured miscreants off in handcuffs with Lestrade, before deciding together to stay and explore the place for future reference. Should they find themselves needing the knowledge at some point.

Sherlock now felt it all crash down on him with the memory. The day had been going so well too!

He closed his eyes and cringed.

Just waiting for the eruption to come.

The rage that would no-doubt follow this realization, was going to be epic.

He kept scrunched up, and tried not to make his body _too_ rigid. He was still rather uncomfortably perched in John's grip, after all.

This was going to be so much worse,

than the few frustrated punches he had received at the hands of John -

when he had surprised him (like an idiot out of nowhere)

after coming back from his "Big Lie" (John's words).

His two years in exile dismantling Moriarty's network had not been a cakewalk. But he had not taken the time to _prepare_ for stepping back into John's life.

And he had learned since, _many_ times over, that he should have...

How had he undone himself now?

Every movement John made as he shifted, sent a shudder of fearful anticipation through Sherlock. How could he fix this? His mind raced.

John was releasing his herculean hold on Sherlock, and gently gripped his shoulders to push him away from his chest, holding him out at arms length to look at him.

Sherlock didn't want to look.

He turned his face away. Eyes glued shut.

He did not want to see.

He did not want to remember _this_ side of John.

If this was to be his last moment with John Hamish Watson

as a friend,

He'd choose to remember the one that had looked at him with such tenderness and open love as he saw earlier.

Anguished as it was, it had shown John's true feelings.

He stored it away in his mind palace for safe keeping. And awaited the inevitable.

(to be continued...)


	3. Exultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock awaits John's response. following the scare he has just unwittingly cost Watson. The last man on earth he wanted to worry further, has been the recipient of his 'a bit not good' behaviour. And Sherlock is afraid this might be the last straw...
> 
> (some kinda mature content, but not explicit ahead - so you don't have to hide your face!)

> If this was to be his last moment with John Hamish Watson
> 
> as a friend,
> 
> He'd choose to remember the one that had looked at him with such tenderness and open love as he saw earlier.
> 
> Anguished as it was, it had shown John's true feelings.
> 
> He stored it away in his mind palace for safe keeping. And awaited the inevitable.

***

Sherlock waited. Curled up as he was against John's side. Turned away from him.

He waited...

But nothing happened.

John was saying nothing.

And he was not brave enough yet to open his eyes.

John was holding him at arms length one moment -

and then John was pulling him back in to himself gently, carefully - the next.

"Sherlock," John breathed.

Almost silently.

Near Sherlock's ear.

As his hands wrapped around his waist again.

Had he been facing in any other way, Sherlock could not have been sure he _had_ heard it. The reverence in that one word shook him.

What did it mean?

"Sherlock," John said again - this time relief pouring from his voice. His hands rubbing a pattern soothingly up and down Sherlock's back, "Thank God, Sherlock." He squeezed him, "Thank Christ!" And he laughed.

A stupid.

Giddy.

Lovely.

Shouldn't-be-laughing-at-a-crime-scene.

Sort of laugh.

The kind of laugh that Sherlock loved _s_ _o much_ to hear out of John's mouth. There was not a better sound in the whole world.

Sherlock felt himself grinning.

He opened his eyes. John's brilliant smile greeted him as he looked up.

"I'll have to let molly know not to give me any blood for a while." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. 

John erupted in a full belly laugh, "You cock!"

He dropped himself back onto the ground, letting go of Sherlock, in order hold onto his own stomach. They hooted and hollered on the floor like children. Rolling around with it. Holding their aching sides with laughter until it passed.

The halls that had before reverberated with anguish, now filled with their cheer. As if lit up.

It reflected off the glass, like Christmas lights.

Winking with color into the corners of the dark.

Showing the world (their own small perfect world)

just how much joy they felt in this moment.

They lay on their backs. Sweaty. Exhausted. Bathed in a pool of (some random stranger's) blood (apparently). And they _couldn't_ be happier.

Sherlock felt a devilish grin spread across his face. He rolled his head to the side to look at John's profile.

John was staring up at the ceiling. His chest heaving with relief as he breathed in and out. Up and down it went. His face was open in a smile so wide, it could split him in half. Sherlock felt it splitting something inside him as well.

John felt Sherlock's eyes looking at him, and he also turned. His cheek pressed against the cold floor, his palm down by his face. His eyes locked with Sherlock's.

They lay there. Just looking into each others eyes.

Searching.

Receiving.

Giving.

Telling.

Wanting.

Asking.

Pleading.

Responding.

And then they were grabbing at each other and kissing.

Sherlock gasped for breath, as he kissed. Struggling against the floor to bring his uncooperative (exhausted) body into closer contact with John Watson's. Their legs intertwined, as John clearly had the same goal. Locking ankles. and holding onto each other for dear life. John was snogging him silly. And he loved it.

Sherlock broke the kiss only to breath, before rolling John into a more comfortable position under himself (no longer tweaking John's injured shoulder, which he was sure was going to wreak havoc tomorrow) and began to kiss John's neck and chin and down to his collar bone. John giggled again a little and sighed. A happy, contented sigh. And let Sherlock explore.

"Should we be worried of anyone coming in on us like this?" John eventually managed as Sherlock was about to pull John's shirt from his waistband hidden underneath the jumper, continuing his ministrations. Sherlock stopped and stiffened visibly. His hand mid-air... _Did John not want this? Was he uncomfortable?_

He paused and looked the question at John.

So openly.

So ready to back off and step back, if he had somehow crossed a line. Or assumed permission that had not _actually_ been _granted_...

"Did you?" He managed to croak out, "want this?"

His throat now dry.

He hovered over John. Feeling like he should cut and run.

Surely a rabbit felt less panic in the face of a fox, than he felt in this very moment waiting for John to speak. _Everything_ was at stake.

He forced himself to wait for a response. _Please tell me I'm not wrong._ He internalized his own feelings and tried to show a blank face to John. The choice was _his_ to make. _Let him make it._ Sherlock thought, resolutely.

Either way, they were not leaving this room with the same relationship they had entered it in.

Sherlock breathed in, waiting. Either way John decided. He had to be fine with it. He _had_ to. He could not bear to go on without this. In some fashion. In any fashion John would allow. In his life.

John breathed out a loud huff, exhaling, releasing all of it at once. "Of course, love." He stated.

Simply,

As if it was obvious.

As if the WHOLE world should know it by now

Just by _looking_ at him.

_Idiot._

He gave Sherlock a look that dispelled all of the doubt that he had felt building up inside of himself so briefly.

"Of course I want _this_ ," John reassured him, looking at Sherlock's face, his cheek, and brushing back an errant curl from Sherlock's forehead, "I want _you_." John reached up to him, motioning him back down by the wave of his hands, back into his waiting arms.

Sherlock growled and melted into John, relief draining the last vestiges of energy he had had left within him. A low rumble.

"I want you." He stated into John's jumper.

It was a _given_.

It was a gift.

And John needed to hear it.

John smiled, recognizing Sherlock's exhaustion for what it was. Emotion.

_Pesky things... feelings!_ Out loud he said, "A heart's a heavy burden, Sherlock." 

Giggling again, and heady with it all - John rolled him over so that he was pressed against the ground. John now resting on top of him. They lay there. Arms at each other's sides. Legs nestled together. Feet touching.

John raised his chin and smiled down at Sherlock. He began kicking his shoes off. Winking cheekily. Sherlock gasped in mock surprise, and took the cue to do the same. Managing to get his shoes off AND somehow his socks. He wiggled his eyebrows at John, who was clearly impressed.

"Not nearly enough clothes off yet though" John stated. And then proceeded to kiss down Sherlock's neck, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

He wanted to take his time exploring every inch of the man beneath him. Worshipping him. This could take a while.

"John," Sherlock stated, as he was being pulled apart in glorious fashion, "I might need a bath."

He was smiling though. As if he couldn't care less about the dirt.

Or the location.

Or anything. Except for John. John. _John._ Here with him.

It made John's heart so full.

That the meticulous genius - the one who dressed to the nines, and who's OCD forced him to spend hours perfecting his curls and picking out the perfect socks - Lay there, a wreck of paradise. In the dirt and grime.

His clothes, littering the hallway. _Their_ clothes. All over. Mingled together. One big mess.

They would need to be taken to a dry cleaner, John knew, tomorrow. And he was sure Sherlock would mourn the loss of the bloodstained ones that the dry cleaner would reject outright. (No one would be able to give a rational explanation for that much carnage...)

_But today?_ John thought. Today, he was getting away with _murder_.

The untouchable Sherlock Holmes. _Was his. To touch._

And He was going to make sure

That unlike Sherlock's _clothes_ ,

Sherlock's _thoughts_

would never come clean again....

At least, not if Watson kept _this_ up!

(which he intended to)

"Sherlock," John replied acknowledging his earlier statement, "there's no _might_ about it." And surprised Sherlock with what followed...

***

(the end - methinks)

**Author's Note:**

> "You cut me open and I... keep bleeding love." - Leona Lewis 'Bleeding Love' (TJLC Playlist)


End file.
